Imperial Echoes

by Eric Thomson

Horam, who’d caught Fenrir’s last line, came up the aft stairs.

  “Our Lyonesse Marines can seize a target at night without the civilians in the area being any the wiser, Captain. It would be prudent if we assume the Hegemony can do the same, seeing how we’re probably both descended from the old Imperial Armed Services. The Marines back in the day were no slouches, especially Pathfinders like my old outfit.”

  “I gather you’re speaking from experience.”

  The Friar nodded.

  “On a planet like this one, they’ll go in after dark when the locals can’t see what’s happening, and tomorrow morning, poof, the Brethren are gone with no one the wiser.” He turned to Rianne. “And that means we would be the only ones left who can warn our people, which makes staying free even more imperative. No more attempts at contacting the priory via shortwave.”

  “I’ve made the same conclusion. Now, all we can do is pray they don’t find us.”

  “Should they visit Thebes tonight, then perhaps while their attention is elsewhere, we might sneak out of here and head further north, skirting the coast. Tell me, captain, is there a way of transforming this ship into a two-master without breaking it?”

  Fenrir shook his head.

  “No. Only a shipyard can remove a lower mast safely. We’ve taken down the topmasts to lower her silhouette, and that’s everything we can do.”

  “Is there a way of disguising, say, the mizzen mast and make it look like anything but? I’m thinking our visitors might not be well versed on sailing ships in general and totally ignorant of the ones used on Hatshepsut. We can be sure Crimple told them Aswan Trader was three-masted, and that means they’ll have programmed their intelligence data filtering program to disregard anything with less or more than three.” Horam snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Can you rig the foremast’s lower spar so it looks like a fourth mast?”

  “Sure. We can make it seem so from a distance or to an untrained eye, but we can’t actually rig it with sails.”

  “Since we’ll be running under engine power, it won’t matter.” Horam glanced up at the sky. “Best if we can do that and leave this place before dark, say around last light. Sensors in orbit are marvelous things. They can spot a fly on a bald man’s dome from four hundred kilometers up, but they’re only as good as the artificial or human intelligence interpreting the data they collect. A four-masted ship emerging from the islands at dusk might fool said intelligence long enough if they used three masts as a primary search parameter.”

  Fenrir contemplated the Friar for a few heartbeats before shrugging.

  “I’m not sure I understand everything you said. But spending the night out at sea instead of here makes complete and utter sense. Fine. Let’s turn Aswan Trader into a ghost whose four masts are too unbelievably truncated for any real Theban sailor.”

  “We’re not dealing with Theban sailors, Captain, but off-worlders in faster-than-light starships. They don’t know a barquentine from a schooner from a ketch. It’s a matter of creating an illusion.”

  After a curt nod, Fenrir called out orders and soon watched his crew create a believable fourth mast from the foremast’s main spar. When it was done, he and Friar Horam took the Stirling engine-powered launch and circled Aswan Trader so they could inspect the transformation from a distance.

  After they scrambled up the side ladder, leaving the launch afloat to pull Aswan Trader out of the inlet once the sun dropped below the islands’ jagged peaks, Horam nodded at his colleagues.

  “In the dark, even studying it through a millimetric sensor, I’m sure I’d be hard-pressed to make her as a disguised three-master. Perception is everything, and from the far end of the inlet, if I didn’t know the extra mast hard up against the engine stack was fake, I’d take it for real.”

  “And now, we should pray our fuel reserves will get us back where we can head into the open ocean under a full press of sails and no off-worlders nosing about.”

  “The Almighty will provide, Captain.”

  “And I’m counting on you four Brethren to make sure he does.” A half-mocking smile briefly relaxed his tense features. “Our escape might convince me I should consider something other than the nihilism of my forebears.”

  “Faith isn’t transactional, but you will know when you find it.”

  — 31 —

  ––––––––

  Crevan Torma’s three shuttles, guided by the Task Force Kruzenshtern ships orbiting Hatshepsut at intervals such that one could always cover the landing party, had dropped to a few hundred meters above a black ocean shimmering with millions of pinpricks. The light from the planet’s moons and the stars reflecting off waves created a whole new universe, one changing by the second, and soon, the distant lights of Thebes on the horizon joined it.

  No one spoke aboard his craft since lifting off from Aksum. Keter spent most of his time napping while Ardrix meditated. Torma simply stared at the map on the display showing their position, airspeed, and time to target and let his mind drift as it sifted through what they learned. One thing was for sure, no matter how the Ruling Council reacted once the task force returned with old Order Brethren from Lyonesse, nothing would ever be the same in the Wyvern Hegemony. Two centuries of slumber would end with the realization they were not alone.

  Petty Officer Klaasen’s voice yanked him out of his reverie.

  “The target is in sight, sir. Would you like it on the passenger compartment display?”

  “Please.”

  The map vanished, showing several one and two-story stone buildings whose windows were ablaze with light. The shuttle’s sensors, capable of piercing the night, picked up every little detail, including the large, flat area in back where they would land shortly.

  “An old Order house,” Ardrix, who’d emerged from her trance, said in a low tone. “Interesting how strange it feels to see something we thought wiped out during the Great Scouring.”

  The priory's size on the display didn’t change, though they were nearing at high speed.

  “There.” Ardrix pointed at a building with tall narrow windows. “That’s the Chapter House, just as we thought. The design hasn’t changed, not for us, and not for them. Since it’s only lit after dark when the Brethren assemble, we timed it well.”

  “Five minutes, Colonel,” Klaasen called out. “I’m reducing airspeed now. Reprisal has eyes on us and is recording.”

  The last few moments passed in a flash and the gentle change of the dropship’s motion from horizontal to vertical as it descended caught Torma by surprise. Seconds later, so did the soft thud when their skids touched down on the compacted earth. The side displays showed both Special Forces shuttles landing on either side of them, and he unfastened his restraints, imitated by Ardrix. On this occasion, they didn’t wait for Major Vinh to secure the area. There would be no time for niceties.

  Torma and Ardrix loped down their craft’s aft ramp the moment it touched the ground and headed for the Chapter House, surrounded by a platoon of Ground Forces troopers. The latter moved silently through the warm night air, like ghosts whose chameleon armor made them almost invisible to the naked eye.

  None in the landing party wore any insignia that might identify them as members of the Wyvern Hegemony military and security forces, just in case. Ardrix didn’t even sport her usual Void Reborn Orb, and her uniform looked almost like Torma’s.

  As they approached the door, Torma and Ardrix gave each other one last questioning glance while the sound of voices rising in plainchant reached their ears. What they did next would irreversibly alter the destiny of not only the Wyvern Hegemony but that of Lyonesse, Hatshepsut, and possibly even humanity in general. The two space-faring splinters of an empire fractured into a thousand shards long ago, meeting for the first time on this primitive world, and what does one of them do? Abduct representatives of the other. Not the most auspicious beginning, but Torma couldn’t come up with any other cou
rse of action that didn’t reveal the Hegemony’s existence to a potential competitor, if not foe.

  For a fraction of a second, he felt a stab of doubt twist his gut.

  Ardrix, in her unaccountably weird way, must have sensed his hesitation because she briefly touched his arm and said, in a whisper, “We cannot let them learn more than is necessary about us, Crevan. The Hegemony’s entire future might be at stake.”

  Torma, who felt his sense of resolve harden once more, grasped the door handle, twisted, and pushed. The carved wooden pane swung inward without a sound, releasing the plainchant into the night. He and Ardrix stepped inside, followed by a dozen troopers who fanned out along the walls.

  In the few seconds before their invasion registered with the Brethren holding compline, Torma absently noted the Chapter House interior seemed little different from that of the New Draconis Abbey, albeit in miniature form. Polished wood pews, tall, stained glass windows, glow globes floating overhead, and an atmosphere of calm, perhaps even of sanctity, everything registered in the space of a heartbeat.

  When he saw the other doors covered by Major Vinh’s troopers and two dozen pairs of eyes staring at him, Torma said, “Pardon the intrusion, but we’re looking for Brethren from Lyonesse.”

  The woman standing on the raised platform speared him with eyes of cold fury.

  “I will not pardon your intrusion, and I do not know about this Lyonesse, now begone before you face eternal damnation.”

  Ardrix gave Hermina a smile devoid of feeling as she thrust her thoughts through the latter’s mental barriers.

  “Lying, Sister? How unbecoming a prioress of the old Order. I’m disappointed.”

  Hermina recoiled as if struck across the face by an open hand.

  “You’re a wild talent,” she said in a raspy voice tainted by genuine fear. “A powerful one.”

  “No. I’m a Sister of the Void. But from what I sense, I’m an improvement over the old Order Brethren.” Ardrix turned her gaze on Torma. “She’s the leader of the Lyonesse Brethren, the prioress of this place.”

  Ardrix then scanned the room and pointed out seven more off-worlders who stared at her with an air of confusion after she touched their minds with no attempt at subtlety.

  “The remaining sixteen are locals, still developing their talents.”

  Torma hadn’t expected Hatshepsut-born Brethren at the priory and was momentarily at a loss. He met Ardrix’s eyes, and the decision came almost at once. He turned to Major Vinh.

  “Take the ones designated as off-worlders and shackle the others. They’re staying. Someone will find them in the morning, no doubt.”

  Hermina reared up. “How dare—”

  “Silence!” Torma’s shout echoed off the stone walls. “You will not speak. Comply, and you won’t get hurt. Resist, and you’ll choose your fate.”

  Under the menace of unmistakably lethal plasma carbines, none of the Brethren, Lyonesse-born or local, made any show of disobedience. But Hermina kept her eyes on Ardrix almost the entire time until a pair of troopers prodded her to follow the others out into the night. Once they were strapped into the command dropship’s aft seats, hands manacled in front of them while an astonished Jan Keter watched in silence, Torma and Ardrix climbed aboard.

  “You’re from this Hegemony, aren’t you?” Hermina hissed, “and you, Sister, are an abomination cursed by the Almighty.”

  Both Torma and Ardrix ignored them as they took their own seats at the front of the passenger compartment while the aft ramp rose in preparation for takeoff.

  “Why won’t you answer?” Hermina demanded in an imperious tone.

  Without turning around, Torma replied, “In good time. Now stay silent until I give you permission to speak.”

  “Best do as he orders,” Keter said in a low tone pitched for Hermina’s ears. “He and the Sister are the most fearsome humans I ever met.”

  Torma had many questions for Ardrix and much to discuss with her. However, it would wait until they were in the privacy of their suite aboard Repulse. Fortunately, their new prisoners took Keter’s suggestion to heart and didn’t speak during the flight, nor did any of them say a word when Major Vinh’s troopers escorted them off the shuttle and to the ship’s brig.

  Torma and Ardrix’s first destination was the flag conference room, where Commodore Watanabe and his chief of staff waited for them. After listening to Torma’s verbal report, Watanabe sat back and frowned.

  “A shame there were witnesses to your raid. But killing them out of hand would have been just as bad as wiping out Mazaber.”

  “Indeed, sir, though none of us wore insignia, mentioned names, or otherwise left those witnesses with any clues to our identity. However, once aboard the shuttle, their prioress asked if we were from the Hegemony.”

  Watanabe sat up.

  “How could she know our origin?”

  “The Brethren who visited Mazaber must have some means of communicating with the priory and reported after speaking with Crimple. That they didn’t expect us in Thebes means those aboard the sailing vessel could be unaware of our presence on this world. But since they could easily have spotted our shuttles approaching Mazaber and identified them, I doubt that’s the case. Doubly so because we can’t find the ship, meaning they somehow hid it, a sure sign they made us for what we are. The other possibilities might be difficulties communicating consistently, which on a world with no infrastructure isn’t surprising, or they’ve gone silent so we can’t track them, which reinforces the idea they’re hiding from our sensors.”

  “Each of our ships searches the area whenever it’s overhead, both the sea and the westernmost part of the Saqqara Islands, but so far, no one spotted a three-masted sailing ship. Which makes me wonder how long we should keep looking. We’ve already been away from home for many long weeks and accomplished our goal. In fact, bringing back eight Brethren from Lyonesse goes well beyond what we’d hoped for or could have imagined. But it’s your call.”

  Torma, suddenly overcome by the fatigue of a long, eventful day, gave him a weary shrug.

  “Unless we sterilize Hatshepsut in the old imperial style and murder countless innocents, knowledge of the Hegemony’s existence can’t be erased. I assume the Lyonesse missionaries are resupplied regularly, which means the next ship that visits will find out about us, just as we found out about them. But at this moment, no one knows about our capabilities, intentions, strength, or anything that might be militarily useful, not even the location of our home system, since neither we nor Keter before us ever used the word Wyvern. The locally recruited Brethren we left behind didn’t see our shuttles and can only describe our persons. The Brethren on the sailing ship will have seen nothing more than those same shuttles from a considerable distance, and although they might return and question Crimple again, they’ll still not learn much.”

  “So, we leave?”

  Torma nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I recommend we return home. Sister Ardrix and I will interview our involuntary guests during the trip and prepare a comprehensive report on Lyonesse, something our superiors can use to shake up the Ruling Council.”

  “Out of curiosity, what will you do with your guests once we’re home?”

  “Release them into Archimandrite Bolack’s care, I suppose.” He glanced at Ardrix. “What do you think?”

  “No question about it. They may be old Order, but they’re still Void Sisters and Friars, our Brethren.”

  A mocking smile touched Torma’s lips.

  “Even though the prioress called you an abomination?”

  “After two hundred years of separate evolution, we will certainly discover doctrinal differences.” Ardrix paused for a few seconds. “I know Repulse’s brig is as comfortable as jails get, but if there’s a block of vacant cabins that can be secured, we might do well to give them quarters more suited for guests than prisoners. It could make interviewing them easier.
They’ll be as curious about us as we are about them.”

  Watanabe gestured at his chief of staff.

  “Why don’t you speak with the first officer and see what’s available.”

  “At once, sir.” He stood and left the room.

  “And you two, go rest. It’s been a long day. I’ll see that we break out of orbit without delay and head home.”

  “Yes, sir.” Both climbed to their feet, and Torma saluted. “With your permission?”

  “Dismissed.”

  — 32 —

  ––––––––

  Commander Jecks’ day cabin intercom chimed softly. He put down his book, a printed version of one of his favorite historical accounts, one covering the years immediately before the empire’s creation from the dying corpse of the old Commonwealth and tapped his desktop.

  “Captain, here.”

  “CIC, sir. The intruders are breaking out of orbit.”

  “Finally. We stay under current conditions until they go FTL. Make sure we track their course just before they jump. We need to find out which wormhole they’ll likely take out of this system.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Suddenly, Jecks found his interest in the book gone while renewed worry about the Lyonesse Brethren on Hatshepsut took over his thoughts. The entire crew spent the next few hours impatiently waiting for the intruders to reach the hyperlimit and vanish. At around the expected time, Jecks headed for the CIC and took the command chair from Serenity’s combat systems officer.

  The sensor chief’s report seemed almost anticlimactic when he announced unknown vessels were gone.

  “What’s their heading?”

  “Wormhole Hatshepsut Two, Captain.”

  Jecks sat back and stroked his chin with his right hand.

  “That one eventually leads into the Wyvern Sector. I wonder...” He touched his chair’s controls. “Bridge, this is the captain, up systems and get to Hatshepsut as fast as possible.”